satoru has been your childhood sweetheart & fling for years. you're not getting any younger, but you're certainly getting tired. and yuta's gotten old enough to want to change that.
♡ ₊˚‧ cw. age gap ( reader & satoru are in their 30s and yuta's in his 20s ) :: first year teacher/former student!yuta :: scarjo :: post-shinjuku :: angst :: smut :: forced proximity :: friends with benefits :: so much yearning from everyone :: m.masturbation :: p in v :: dirty talk
˖ ࣪꒰ SATORU GOJO ꒱ ˙˖ always had a complicated relationship with you. too intimate to be friends and too ignorant to be lovers. he held your heart from that clumsy smile in first year. with his glasses wobbled over his nose and his hair a mess of leaves. looking up at you with eyes that everyone adored— yet they dazzled for you.
you wished you never smiled back at him that day.
maybe it would have saved you the pain in your heart and heels. from this endless will-they-won't-they-waltz. you were gojo satoru's. in his apartment, on his accounts, in his arms, his kisses, his body, and in waiting—
but never his. not in his heart. you didn't think so.
it was physical. the frustration of his kiss after a long day and the passion of his fingers that memorised over the years how to melt you. lay you out bear for him. raw in a way that had become second-nature. sex was the most vulnerable you'd seen him.
but never, ever, would he allow you to see the true fragility of his heart.
the relationship was made only worse after the shibuya incident. where a moment of weakness nearly cost him his life and he still wore the scars as reminders. still, you waited. endlessly, hopelessly, picking at the crumbs from his palms and hoping they'd caress you as something more than the infinity between friend and lover.
it didn't matter how scarred he was. nor how long he'd strung you along. you wanted him. and he always had you in a way that he never deserved.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ had always wanted you in the way that he shouldn't have.
from the moment you smiled at him, all warm and comforting during his first day of class. your tender hands that guided him through the art of his blade. how you softened your voice when speaking to him— like he was fragile and you valued vulnerability.
he wondered if it's because you too, were fragile.
he saw it now. the tiredness in your eyes. the weariness in your smile. things he never caught when he was student and your priority. you'd taken care of him in the same way that satoru did. nurtured the boy with a monstrous onslaught of cursed energy and taught him control, calmness, confidence— and here he was now. twenty three and a teacher for the first years at jujutsu tech. guiding students the way you'd guided him.
he'd always felt more than just the affection a student has to a teacher. 'a puppy crush', is what inumaki called it. he was embarrassed in his youth, naturally. you're— what? ten years older than him? the thought kept him awake with a pounding heart and red face staring at the ceiling on nights he'd focused a bit too much on how close you were to him earlier in the day.
nowadays, he doesn't really care about the age gap.
his feelings hadn't faded like his peers told him they would. if anything, they grew with every passing year. the closer he got to you, the more he got to work with you— and now he was able to teach beside you? see you in your element and how attentive you were to every aspect in your life?
no, if anything, okkotsu yuta thinks he's in love with you now.
˖ ࣪꒰ SATORU GOJO ꒱ ˙˖ broke your heart on the weekly. the sex was good— more than good. he'd arrive at your doorstep in a storm, kiss you in a blur, feel his hands all over you like they were simply tethers and you were the only answer.
he'd have you under him. skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart. gripping, and groping, and grinding so deep that tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you felt him in your very soul.
he'd play with your clit. stir your spine into a curve and keep it there with his cock fucking so deep that he rattled your heart. until your cunt squeezed him so tight and your voice called for him even more desperately—
he'd tear you apart. under his teeth, his tongue, his nails and cock. he'd pound you into the sticky sheets all night long, call you his filthy girl on your ear until you repeated it back in choked whines.
but he'd never call you his girl.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ saw the hickies on your neck when your collar would slip when you weren't looking. dark and red. all over your neck. like a mark— a claim— but they'd fade.
he'd see the dreamy look in your eyes when you'd sometimes leave a classroom, or satoru's office, or even a closet on a few occasions.
he felt the racing in your heart. the dreamy look in your eyes. the temporary smile on your lips. and he knew, of course he knew. even a person with one eye could see that you and satoru were something. more than friends, less than lovers, something that told others to back off.
but what yuta also saw amidst all the haze?
the void in your heart.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ took care of you in ways you never noticed. your coffee was always on your desk, a habit he'd started in fourth year. documents were always neatly in your office. you never walked home late or took the night train alone. he'd nudged his shoulder closer when you'd fallen asleep beside him on the ride back home. helped you to your apartment and made sure you locked the door after.
your apartment was an address he'd memorised. popping by with takeout and treats at the end of the week. leaving before you could question it too much.
if there was a mission on the roster that was particularly daunting, yuta would make sure he was there to assign to it first. he knew of your habit of trying to lessen the load on satoru's shoulders. and while he found it admirable— you were a person too.
he carried an extra water bottle. made sure you took your lunch breaks. helped with your students. he took care of you not because he wanted you to see him as anything more, but to simply repay you for the way you'd taken care of him in his younger years. he did it because he cared. not because he was waiting.
˖ ࣪꒰ SATORU GOJO ꒱ ˙˖ couldn't take care of you in the way you wanted. he couldn't be the one waiting for you after school or on your train platform. couldn't show up to your apartment with emergency packages because missions were always more important.
not more important than you. never more important than you. but definitely more important that vulnerability, which directly involved you.
he couldn't be the shoulder you leaned on. he was just the body you were supposed to take your frustration out on. not the hand that held yours, but the one that held yours down as you both burst in that wrecking, temporary passion.
temporary, limited, fleeting. but in those moments— you were his.
he gave you what he could, because he cared. of course he did. but he couldn't commit. so instead he'd keep you waiting.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ felt a little at ease when you were both assigned to the latest mission. but that faded the second he noticed how tense you were. it was easy to do so; or maybe he'd just grown accustomed to your tells. he knew when you were happy, sad, tired, stressed—
right now, the way you sat in the backseat of the assistant manager's car beside him. arms folded and leaning on the door, staring out of the window as your thoughts were faster than the cars zipping by.
you seemed upset. drained. yuta wondered if it was because of another argument with him again.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ didn't really have the time to ask you if were alright. you were thrust head-first into the mission. sorcerers never really delved in the matters of curse users, but it seemed today was one of those special occasions.
these kinds of missions often called for stakeouts. controlled cursed energy and reduced residuals. a steeled mind and a steady heart.
and right now, it was taking all the endless, thousands of hours he'd spent training to keep his heart from thumping straight out of his chest when he had you with your back to his chest, pressed into every inch of him and your shampoo in his nose.
stakeouts. right.
the supply closet was more than just cramped, it was a test of his resolve. here you were, the woman he'd had heart eyes for since the first day he showed up all dull-eyed and bushy-tailed, now pressed against him in every meaning of the word. his knees against your thighs. your shoulders on his chest. his spine hunched to accommodate with the tiny closet but in turn flushing him further up into you.
he didn't know where to put his hands. so they were flat on the wall in front of you. which— wouldn't you know? trapped you even further against him.
his breath was thin. eyes unblinking. every internal thought praying to whatever was listening for him to think about something. anything. but the softness of you up against him. the scent of your shampoo. the feel of your breath, your thighs, your ass—
stop.
stop. stop. stop it.
think about flowers.
your hair smelled like flowers. . .
NO. think of something else. think of curses. scary things. disgusting things.
his mind was certainly thinking disgusting things. thinking how he wanted to press you into the wall and kiss you like a curse. until your soul left your body and he could swallow it. hold you, caress you, have you.
fuck.
his eyes squeezed shut. he sucked in a breath. he could do this. he'd worked so hard on his nerves. he could put on a mask. focus on the mission.
that was until, he heard your heart racing.
wait.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ wanted to take a peek at your thoughts. just for a moment. he'd trade anything in the world for just a second. just to know why your body was so stiff, why your breath was shallow, why your heart— was pounding.
little did he know how you stared at the wall. unblinking too. little did he see how your palms sweated as they too were pressed on the wall, between his.
his hands had gotten bigger, you'd noticed. hell, yuta had gotten bigger. when did he get so tall? tall enough that he had to crook in the supply closet and somehow he still loomed over you?
you tried to steady yourself. tried to think. think of anything else but the heat spreading on your face and the way your feet pressed closer. why. . . why were you feeling like this?
were you flustered?
not a cold day in hell. you'd never be flustered. not over your former student. not over yuta okkotsu, the boy you'd taught how to use a sword. who looked up at you with those big puppy eyes and followed you around like one too back then
no. absolutely not.
"you remember the plan, right?" he murmured to your ear.
fuck. when. when did his voice get so raspy?
it was low, emphasising the rasp that stuttered your heart. muttering to your ear as to not give away your hiding spot. he spoke about the plan of action. refreshed you on what his stance would be. what yours would. everything vital for the mission to go smoothly.
but all you could think of was. . .
when did yuta grow into such an attractive man when you weren't looking?
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ had his mind racing by the time you both returned to the hotel. he entered his suite, shut the door, pressed his back to it and drew a shaky breath. fuck. was he thinking things? did he hear wrong? was it just the fantasies?
he's always been so acutely aware when it came to you. so he knew without a doubt: your heart was racing.
not only that, but you weren't listening. he swore he saw the tremble in your knees. heard the hitch in your breath. you were flustered— and that thought excited him, as it wedged into his own stuttering heart and bloomed possibilities.
were you attracted to him?
could he actually have you?
he wanted to be a good guy and say that he shook the thought off. chastised himself. but yuta was hardly the boy that he once was. still sweet— but with an edge. so tossed off his jacket. sat on the bed. nurtured the thought like a flame dancing in his palms. dangerous, scandalous, and everything in between.
long legs kicked onto the bed. his dark hair that had grown out a bit since his teen years splayed over the pillows as he stared at the ceiling. recalling your softness that pressed into every inch of him. the weight of your back on his chest, your hands trembling between his, your perfume enveloping him.
fuck. you were so close. so right. it took everything within him not to bury his nose into your neck and inhale your sweet scent. drag his lips on your pulse. seize your waist.
wait.
wait wait.
stop it.
he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as that familiar, uncomfortable strain tightened his pants. no— he wasn't gonna do it. he wasn't. he wasn't about to touch himself to the thought of you when you were on the other side of the wall.
it's a miracle his dick even behaved in the first place when it was wedged up against your back like that. your ass— shit.
he needed some relief. just a little. lest he drive his cursed energy into a spiral and have you knocking on his door to check on him cause you sensed it. he didn't think he'd be able to hold back at all then.
so he reached down. slowly. stroked his thumb along the bulge in his dark pants and hissed a soft breath. slow. gotta go slow.
the callouses from his swords-wielding dragged over the curve of his erection. pushing his thumb to his already leaking tip through the fabric. rubbed slow and steady. shattering his sanity bit by bit. as he gulped down moans and whispered whines.
dark, hazy eyes fluttered. blinking up at the ceiling as he tried to imagine your face. tried to pretend it was your soft hand wrapped around his dick. your thumb swiping on his dripping slit and jerking him off so messily.
no— you wouldn't be messy. nothing about you was clumsy. not like him. not like the way he fucked his fist and chewed his lip so hard it broke skin. not like the way he grunted, and panted and whined your name from the back of his throat.
no. you were perfect. so so perfect. it's why he was able to spurt all over his hand without so much as a few minutes. his mind spinning, breaths ragged and his eyes hazy hearts. for you. only you.
he needed to have you. in any way he could. and now that you'd given him an in? he finally had hope.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ decided he was going to start small. whether you made the move or not, he wanted to show you that there were other options. safer ones. warmer ones. that didn't involve you getting your heart shattered every friday.
it started with being there for you more. being there in the morning when you clocked in for work to give you the coffee himself. bringing you lunch. walking you home and making sure he finished missions as early as possible so that he could.
he'd carry your bag for you. fill out extra paperwork so you wouldn't have much to do. offer to grade any outstanding papers from your classes for you.
yes, every action was more charged now. every time he saw you relax there was a brighter flicker of hope within him. but this was more than just trying to show you a better option— no. it was intimacy.
intimacy in the form of taking care of you. showing you his love in small, meaningful acts. showing you he was there. that he cared. because love was earned. much like trust. and he was willing to do whatever it took to show you that he could be trusted.
that he could take care of you.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ got a little bolder. just slightly. not pushing— never pushing. but persistence. he locked eyes with you whenever he could. held the state until you looked away or he absolutely had to. let you know that he was seeing you. that he always saw you.
his hand would brush yours as he handed you your coffee. shoulders nudging, fingers feathering. in all the ways that were natural but there. enough to notice. enough to get a reaction out of you.
he listened close. always. listened for your heart. looked at your eyes. for signs of discomfort. for something that told him to stop. but there was none.
did you feel it too?
the spark when his hand cupped your shoulder to guide you into your apartment? when his arms wrapped around you to give you a hug every morning? when your knees leaned on one another on the train ride back home?
he saw it. you were beginning to realise. beginning to entertain that flame that danced between the both of you. tempting. alluring.
but why— why, why. why.
were you denying yourself?
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ found himself frustrated when he was alongside satoru and his mentor let something slip.
he's always looked up to him. appreciated him. cared for him. nothing would change that. hell, satoru was the one who saved his life. gave him a home. satoru was the reason he met you in the first place.
but that didn't change the fact that he was still the reason you shed tears.
it was silly, really. fleeting. satoru probably didn't even realise that he had said it with how absentminded it was as he walked down the hallways alongside yuta.
"you know how woman can be. hard to please."
hard. to please?
it was a pleasure to please you.
"you know, sensei," he couldn't even begin to stop himself. his voice lower than intended. eyes deader than he realised as he glanced over at satoru who spared him a small look. probably surprised at the tone.
but that hardly stopped yuta, as he spoke flatly. too bluntly.
"you really should appreciate the things that are right in front of you more."
˖ ࣪꒰ SATORU GOJO ꒱ ˙˖ had always appreciated it. he would never not appreciate you, the girl from his childhood who chased him down when he stole her dango and offered her shoulder for him to bawl into whenever the world became too much.
satoru had always wanted you. in a way that was dangerous for the person he was raised to be. it was selfish.
which was exactly why he couldn't.
there were too many risks. too many possibilities. too many things standing in the way of him, you, and the life he'd always wanted to give you. something other than the sorcerer world and endless missions and never a concrete forever.
vulnerability was weakness. and even if he could get over that; he never would be able to give you everything that you deserved.
˖ ࣪꒰ SATORU GOJO ꒱ ˙˖ knows it was even more selfish to keep you around even when you deserved so much more than him. deserved to move on and find something that wasn't his scarred body or his weapon soul.
he loved the sex. loved the velvet of your skin against his. the sin of your lips on his. your body, everything about it— but he wanted more. craved it in the fantasies that he laid awake thinking about when you occupied the place that sleep should.
right now though, sex was the only way that he thought he could have you in. in the raw physicality of it all. outside of feelings, and heart, and soul. outside of the risks, the complications. when you were under him. nails scratching on his back and voice calling for him so sweetly, so sinfully, like he was just satoru rather than gojo satoru.
just his. in that temporary, aching way.
˖ ࣪꒰ SATORU GOJO ꒱ ˙˖ hated leaving you the morning after. when you were your most beautiful. covered in his scent, his marks, his love. yes. the love he denied time and time again even when it'd branded itself in his heart.
you were beautiful when you slept. curled in the sheets and hugging around a pillow he'd substituted himself for. he couldn't bear it. to have you reach out for him while he'd love and leave you all over again.
but he was afraid.
so maybe, keeping you at arms' length was the better option. selfish, yes. but chaining you to a broken and dutiful being like him felt even more selfish.
˖ ࣪꒰ SATORU GOJO ꒱ ˙˖ hated the fights, but he always got so overwhelmed. he never learnt how to regulate those emotions. not when you're raised in a clan and given everything you want— and the times that you aren't resulted in painful punishments if you asked too much.
he always said the wrong thing. always wound himself up. let all the thoughts bunch in his head and boil over until he was spitting fire at you.
he remembered everything single fight. everything single thing he'd said to you. every time you tried to pretend you weren't crying and all the times you couldn't.
he'd remember this fight, too. as you stood in the centre of his living room. your face twisted as much as his. your hands gestured while his balled. when you both clashed it was ugly. like metal scraping on metal and trying to shatter the other.
he'll remember what he told you. when it all got too much and everything zeroed it. when he told you to get the hell out of his house, and snapped a piercing blue glare over his shoulder at you.
"you're just an overgrown friend."
cutting— stabbing. aimed to carve out any fight in your heart and poison it with the lie that he thought you were a bother. that he'd outgrown you. that you were just a leach of the past.
he'll remember how you stormed out of his apartment.
he'll remember your tears on his carpet.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ nearly dropped the files in his arms when he'd answered the call to your sniffling.
"are you— are you okay? hey, hey, shhh." he hushed over the line, brows pinching and mouth frowning. how he hated hearing you cry.
"I'll be there, okay? just wait for me, deep breaths." it took everything within him to bite back an endearment at the end and hang up.
he was there in twenty minutes. with your favourite takeout in one hand and dessert in the other. but when you answered the door, with glossy eyes and a blotched face— he nearly dropped both in favour of bundling you up into his arms.
once yuta got his arms around you, he wasn't sure he was ever letting go again. not with how you curled into him and you both sat on the couch. as you clung to his jacket and trembled. how you sobbed into his shoulder as if you'd choke up your heart.
he held you. close. protective. one large hand to the back of your head while his other arm wrapped around you. tucking you under his chin and hiding you away. shielding you from the world that dared to hurt you.
"it's okay, I'm here. I promise I'm here." he murmured to your ear. as he listened to your hiccups and chokes. as you spilled everything that happened between you and satoru.
he was so glad that you were too shaken to notice how his cursed energy crackled.
but he sucked in a breath. shut his eyes. counted to five. calmed down because he didn't need that right now. not when you needed him.
he held you until you were calm. cuddled you until your tears were dry. listened to whatever you wanted to say.
he was there for you. in every definition of the word.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't impressed when your phone lit up on the coffee table beside the couch with satoru's name on the screen. what did he want? after making you cry your eyes out like this he shouldn't even be breathing your name, let alone trying to talk to you.
what frustrated him even more was how you shifted. like it was automatic. like it was fucking natural to just let the guy who hurt you over and over back in yet again. he felt your arm move, knew you were reaching to answer.
his grip tightened. "you don't have to answer that, you know." he spoke, soft. soft enough to mark the twinge of irritation. "you deserve to be upset too."
you sniffed. rubbed your eyes and nodded your head before you leaned back on his shoulder. clinging to him. close to him. in a way that was hardly appropriate but none of you cared to admit in the moment.
the ringing stopped. his grip loosened. yuta nuzzled his head into yours and enjoyed the silence, even if your broken heart spilled in it. he simply held you. loved you.
and then the blasted phone rang again.
and then you hesitated again.
and then you reached out. fucking. again.
"what if it's something important," you murmured. he hated how naturally you could make excuses.
"well then he'll show up," yuta tried to offer. tried to steer you away as you shifted in his arms. reaching for satoru, slipping from yuta's fingers. as you always did.
"you really shouldn't answer—"
"just let me hear him out."
it should have ended there. he should have let you. should have just shut up and listened as satoru apologised over the line and you forgave his every sin because you never realised how much more you deserved.
yuta couldn't take it. not anymore. so as your fingers slipped around the phone— his shot out.
his arm around you had snapped over. easily outdoing yours as your hand was dwarfed by his. snatching the phone and gripping tighter. steeling it from your hold.
he wouldn't let you hurt yourself. not again. not even when you snapped your stare over to him and jerked to face him. that same strict look from when you trained him striking in your stare.
defensive, weren't you? for what— satoru?
"who do you think you—"
but you hadn't realised. that as you jerked to face him you abruptly shoved closer. too close. too close for someone who was about to scold him as if you were still his teacher when you flushed up against him in a way that was anything but.
your breath hitched. he heard it. just like he heard your heart stutter. again.
for him.
yuta didn't flinch. even as your face brushed dangerously close. as your glare quivered. as your chest flushed into him.
his brows narrowed. eyes darkened. not with anger, not with frustration, but something more deadly:
love.
"why do you insist on hurting yourself over and over again? you deserve something good." he spoke, even. calm. like a man who meant every word and how to give it to you.
you hesitated.
you did that a lot with him.
why? because you felt it too? because you knew it in your heart that only ever said satoru's name?
you cleared your throat. not flinching away but not pressing closer. even as his fingers curled around your shirt and his arms steeled you into him.
even as he stared into your eyes with his half-lidded ones, as if he was trying to crawl into your very soul and hold it as his own.
even as your breaths mingled. your hearts slipping into the little space between you both.
skipping.
yearning.
"and how—" you steadied yourself. pressed your lips together. bracing that pesky resolve—
"how would you know what I deserve?"
"because I want to give it to you."
— as his shattered all together.
and his lips crashed onto yours.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ kissed you.
he kissed you.
hand bunching the back of your hair and the other clinging to your waist. his mouth molding on yours and your breath stolen in his lungs.
like a collision of stars. hot, burning, and oh so messy.
he kissed you with everything that he had. everything that he was, everything that he wasn't, everything that he wanted to be for you.
because you deserved more than being forgotten.
deserved something good.
something new.
yuta hadn't kissed many people in his life. it showed in the way his knuckles cramped. you noticed it in the clumsiness of his kiss that doubled down as roughness. in the way he hardly let you breathe before he pulled you back in. like he was trying to gulp down your very soul.
his lips were soft. his kiss was scathing. he pulled away to hear you gasp on his mouth only to drag you back in.
you should push him away. push him away and tell him to leave. push him away. push him away.
instead, you melted.
into something ruinous, something raw, something ravenous for love from the depths of your very soul. and you— kissed him back.
like he wasn't your former student. like he wasn't ten years younger than you. like he wasn't the relative of the reason tears were dried on your cheeks.
your fingers curled around his jacket. gasping for air as he parted. trying to call his name— to grasp reality— to stop yourself.
"don't," he rasped. fingers coiling tighter. eyes whispering the abyss yet alluring you all the same.
"just let me have this. just once. just let me love you, please."
and then he kissed you again. hotter. rougher. an inexperienced mouth, and yet it sought to worship you. tongues tangling and teeth knocking. as his blunt nails dug into you and flushed you into him.
old against new. inexperience against experienced. scared against sure.
skin-to-skin. heart-to-heart.
you whimpered. broken, ashamed, raw and — wanting. god. what were you doing?
it ended softer than it began. his kiss melted off of your lips. left your heart hammering and soul shaking.
dark lashes fluttered. pupils dilated. his lips just as swollen as yours.
yuta whispered something against your mouth.
three words.
sinful. scary.
oh, so, sure.
and you shattered.
˖ ࣪꒰ YUTA OKKOTSU ꒱ ˙˖ looked confused when you told him to leave. when you shoved at his chest and pulled away from him. curled into the corner of the couch as you ripped yourself from his embrace.
did he have the wrong impression? did he hurt you? force you?
no.
no, you kissed him back.
and that was the problem.
"you—" you choked, tucking your head away. like you couldn't bear to look at him. "you should leave. please leave."
he listened.
because he respected you too much to oppose. loved you even more to disobey you.
"okay," he spoke, soft. steady. as if you both hadn't crossed a line. well over danger and knee-deep in scandal.
as if his mouth wasn't on yours.
as if it didn't feel so right.
"okay, I'll leave," he assured. tender as he put space between you both. eyes selfishly lingering on you even as you quivered. holding yourself back from the reality that you both already knew.
he stepped away. easy. too easy. heading for the door and giving you your space. because loving you meant listening to you.
but not before he called from the door.
"just don't regret it, okay?"
not scared, or sinister, or even smug.
serene.
sensual.
"don't ever regret wanting something new."
he left. with his kiss still a ghost on your lips. and his words a phantom that would haunt your very being.
Introducing a new AU: Something Old, Something New!
I'm not sure if I'll make it a fic or a comic but its a DCA x Reader taking place in an Oddity store ran by an old lady named Mildred!
Post security breach / ruin, main character gets hired and helps with the store and meets one of her employees; Eclipse!
DCA is considered one whole entity with Sun and Moon being different states of mind, per sey. And yes, even though theyre all the same person you get to smooch them all.
My and my friend's Sun x Moon cattle boy fic is still of utmost importance but I wanted to share one of my newer ideas :3c
More doodles:
something old, something new : rosquez, time travel and a wedding / 5.7k words
“We are not so traditional.”
“No. But it’s nice. The white.”
“Virginal.”
Valentino looks up from his coffee as he says it, reading glasses half way down his nose. Marc meets his sly smile with a delicately arched eyebrow — ‘argue that point, if you’d like.’
The white flag waves; Valentino grins into his mug, clinks his teeth on the ceramic rim.
“Maybe if I had snatched you up faster,” he defers. Indeed, if they’d skipped the ten year mess and married each other out of the starting blocks. Too late for that now, though. And Marc looks good in white. It’s summer — he’ll be tan.
The lace tickles where it climbs up his neck and over the backs of his hands, silken like cobwebs. It’s lovely. Expensive. Álex had gotten a little teary when he’d ducked in earlier and had smothered the emotion in his voice with a teasing whisper into Marc's ear: “You make a beautiful bride." His mare, stood close, flattens a miniscule crease in the white fabric. She can’t help herself.
Álex’s girlfriend’s makeup artist, invited as a plus-one but who had brought her palettes and her creams and her brushes and followed Roser into Marc’s top floor bridal suite, slots in beside Roser’s elbow. She eyes Marc closely, lips pursed in thought and little pink sponge held aloft. It’s damp when she presses it into his eyebags, cold and soothing.
“You should have at least tried to sleep the whole night,” his mare says, combing his hair back with her fingers. It had been sitting nicely before, curled all shiny with pomade rather than post-race sweat. He hadn’t said that he didn’t, but exhaustion has always worn severely on him, carved his face out like a shell. Camelia, the makeup-artist-plus-one, dabs a soft puff across his forehead and beneath his eyes again.
“It is stressful,” he answers, trying to hold still. Camelia leans in towards his face. Roser swats at his shoulder.
She says, “I know that, don’t tell me. But you are all here now. Nearly done.” Nearly done, Marc thinks. With which part?
Camelia clicks her tongue. “Your skin is so nice,” she murmurs, “I’m finished. See.” She hands him a mirror. Roser steps away to take a long, close-eyed sip of her wine. The make-up looks natural enough. He can see where she’s packed it into the dark bags beneath his eyes, where there are little textured creases. But he looks better — not as tired.
“Lucky you are working on Marc and not Valentino,” Roser sniffs into her glass. Marc catches her eye. She’s still a little bitter. Happy for him, but not yet secure in it all. Too fast, she’d called their engagement, and then fanned herself, eyebrows raised, when Marc presented her with the first of sixty crisp paper wedding invites. I trust you, but Marc, querido, this is all — very sudden.
Marc has not seen Valentino yet today. They’re going a little old-school with it, first look down the aisle type-thing. Maybe part of the reason he’d slept so poorly; that the other side of the queen bed had been left empty and Valentino’s things had been carried out by him and Luca that afternoon, leaving the room clean but for Marc’s suitcase and his toiletries and his white suit hanging in the wardrobe.
“Have you spoken to him today?” Roser asks, settling into an armchair and pulling the hem of her dress out from where it's caught round her legs. Marc shakes his head. He stands, re-tucks his shirt and pulls his jacket on. Camelia hefts her makeup box beneath her arm and walks herself to the door, whispering, “Bye-bye,” when Roser waves at her past Marc’s shoulder. The lock clicks.
Marc flexes his fingers. “Is she really Gabri’s friend?” Roser shrugs. She swallows another mouthful of her wine. Marc is nearly certain she knows the answer to that. “And no, we are — I will see him for the first time at the ceremony.” He clenches his fists in the lapel of his jacket and then smooths it out again. Tradition, or not having to deal with Valentino’s neuroses on the most stressful day of his life — yes, the arm and championships and twenty-fucking-fifteen be damned.
But really, the capital ‘F’, fear.
The fear, pervasive like an infection in bone, rotting out the marrow. There is a non-zero chance that he makes his way to Valentino’s room to find that Valentino isn’t there. That he isn’t in the hotel, or the country, even. Marc knows this. Marc had known this when Valentino proposed, down on one shaky knee even though they’d talked about it already, when he’d said yes and when he’d contacted the wedding planner and when he’d invited every single important person in his life to an event that he couldn’t really guarantee would happen. He doesn’t feign naïveté. The awareness burns behind his eyes at all times, even now. Even this close to the end.
The contingency plan boiling on his backburner tells him that Valentino’s cold feet is something he could recover from. No more difficult than last time. One more mountain to climb and one more white flag to plant at the summit.
So he hasn’t seen Valentino since 4PM. Twenty two hours, about.
“Oh, Álex is messaging me. We should go, go find your father. Are you ready? Have you got everything?”
𓇢𓆸
To the credit of the designer and the planner and every member of the venue team, it does look like a two-hundred-and-something-thousand euro wedding. Marc walks down the aisle arm in arm with his pare, and cries only a little bit as Julià releases him to shake Valentino’s hand. Everyone sits and falls silent as the officiant steps forward, smiling kindly between them. Marc can’t even remember her name, brain like a summer storm, lightning dancing on the horizon. Valentino's mouth had fallen open when they'd locked eyes. It's all Marc can think about.
He blinks up at the arch of flowers stretching above them. He’d picked a sunset sort of colour scheme for the ceremony; reds and pinks and oranges, and a starburst smattering of yellow pom-pom like-things, because Valentino had asked absently for the colour, otherwise not so interested in the finer details of decor and floral arrangements.
Chrysanthemums, they are: yellow, for slighted love. It’s a cruel little victory on such a beautiful day. Unnecessary, sure. But they’re — they’re just like that. It’s not something worth fighting.
Marc swallows. He finds Valentino’s glassy eyes and smiles tightly, without his teeth.
“Are we wedding people?” Valentino whispers, mouth hot against Marc’s temple. The pair of them perched on the edge of Marc’s pool, legs wet and bodies flushed with goosebumps from the night chill. “It’s a bad track record, isn’t it?” Valentino presses, “two sets of divorced parents.” Then he laughs and drags his lips over the curve of Marc’s cheekbone, and Marc grins like it's actually funny and not just completely nauseating.
They have the ceremony in Italian, because most of the people here belong to Valentino, and because Valentino has yet to learn Spanish the way he said he would — mispronounces his Cs on every other word and makes little attempt to correct.
It doesn’t stop Marc from delivering the final portion of his vows in Catalan, only because his tongue is starting to fail him and the lump in his throat hurts to speak around. Valentino might remember to ask about it later. Marc will translate it as best as he can, but the meaning never carries quite the same.
They kiss when they’re told and Valentino deepens it perhaps more than he should, but their friends cheer and Álex heckles and Valentino grins so big, teeth pressed to Marc’s lips until he pulls back laughing. Their videographer, the same that Pecco and Domizia had used, catches their hand-in-hand parade down the aisle beneath a shower of white rice and congratulations. The big dark camera lens only turns Marc’s stomach a little bit.
They fold into the front seats of a top-down, cherry red Aventador, perhaps the least expensive piece of the whole ordeal, somehow; donated most generously by a smattering of Ducati higher ups that Valentino had called sleazy old men once the key was tucked safely in his closed fist, no invites, I won’t allow it — you are their little winner, aren’t you. Porco Madonna.
Valentino peels off from the streetside to more applause, puts his foot down hard to make the car roar as they take off down the road. Disapproval no longer front of mind, clearly, right hand spread across Marc’s thigh.
“Is the only use of an automatic, you know,” he says, smiling. The trails of the big white bow adhered to the car’s spoiler whip around in the wind.
They arrive at the lookout where the photo team is already waiting — members of both Vogue Italia and España, who had hounded the pair of them near incessantly by email until Marc caved and agreed to a photoshoot, as long as they wouldn’t ask to come to the ceremony or the reception. It would make the front page for both publications, the Italian editor had promised them, as if that was something they desperately wanted.
“Like a royal fucking wedding,” Valentino laughs. He sounds crackly through the zoom call. Looks tired, too, hair wild and unbrushed. They’ve been apart for a week and a half already. Marc raced only the day before.
“That is actually almost our tagline,” Francesca Ragazzi replies, beaming.
Valentino parks and they trek up to a cliffs edge that has been decorated within an inch of its life. It’s only half as awkward as Marc expects it to be; the familiar droll of a photoshoot turned hot and squirmy in his stomach by otherwise out of place directions and a lack of bikes and leathers, place your hand on his jaw and just lean in, perfect, now if you can smile, Valentino. Regardless, they survive, and Valentino takes them the long way to the reception venue, the road beside the coast. He blasts music loud enough to make Marc laugh, red-cheeked and embarrassed even on the empty street, and keeps his fingers splayed out over Marc’s knee the whole drive there.
𓇢𓆸
Álex and Luca are the first to greet them when they slip through the door, exchanging hugs and cheeks kisses and thank you for all your help whispered in both pairs of ears, because they’d taken on a lot of the heavy lifting once the date started to really loom.
“Mamma wants to say hi to you,” Luca says, getting Valentino by the arm but looking at Marc for permission. Marc laughs, nods, breathes, “Of course, go." The brothers disappear and Álex turns on him keenly.
“You doing okay?” he asks. Marc takes another deep breath. It comes easier and easier the further away Valentino gets, dark back disappearing into the weave of people, vanishing between pillars and flowers and romantic fairy lights. It all looks good. It looks beautiful. He says as much, and Álex follows his eye out across the room. The reception is white and blue and soft sea green, classic except where colour explodes in flower bunches and deep navy napkins. Álex, too, in a blazer the same shade as his Gresini leathers. He’s Marc’s ‘something blue’, and he’s curling a hand around the back of Marc’s neck and saying his name again, voice low. Marc shakes his head.
“I’m good. I’m fine.” He meets Álex’s stare with an unconvincing laugh. It’s just a lot. There’s twenty-something people he has to find and greet, and he’ll need to get Valentino back with him for at least some of that. “I have to go make some rounds, yes? We can catch up again before the speeches?”
Álex squeezes his nape and drops his hand. Marc writes the worry in his eyes off as tender-hearted sentiment. Weddings are emotional. That’s just — that’s all it is.
“Yes. Go schmooze.”
Marc bats at him and snorts a laugh as he turns away.
He steals Valentino from Luca and Stefania with a tight-lipped smile and a ‘what can you do’ eyebrow raise. Valentino twines their hands together as Marc scouts out a first target.
They endure thirty-five conversations with only three stops at the bar, although Marc isn’t drinking yet. Valentino makes the switch from gin to champagne once he’s regaled Marc’s parents with a charming retelling of the Vogue story and an assurance that it was very worth the trouble, though, I think, you should have seen him, against the sea in white like that, allora, what a picture.
Uccio had even been almost pleasant. Complimented the decorations and nodded politely when Valentino revealed most of it had been Marc’s doing. A success story, really.
Marc leans his weight against the mahogany countertop till his back pops.
“Nice of everybody to show up,” he murmurs. Valentino hums.
“Is a free holiday for them, no? Just have to put up with us for a few long hours first.”
Marc huffs a laugh. Valentino drifts his fingers over Marc’s waist, beneath his jacket but over his shirt. His face twists, eyelids fluttering to half mast. Marc can’t read the look until it clears, replaced with nothing but distance. Valentino straightens suddenly, places his coupe on the bar and rubs at his chest.
“I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” He presses a kiss to Marc’s forehead and slips away between guests, shoulders round. Marc watches him go until he disappears. It’s not out of character. Marc isn’t worried. He picks his way to the front of the room, to the head table.
Seeing his decor choices in real life and not in sample boxes or through a laptop screen is decently satisfying. The tablecloths have suns and moons embroidered around their edges, and each napkin has 46 + 93 embossed at its centre. He’d ask the planner to save them several of each, for keepsake purposes.
“This is the first option, the heat emboss. Or we could have the design printed? I feel like embossing looks nicer, but then you cannot, like, pick a colour for the design. It’s just the colour of the napkin.” He taps the brightness of his display a couple levels higher and straightens the screen so that Valentino, pressed against his back on the couch underneath him, can see. “Which do you like?”
“Yes, nice,” Valentino says, mouth moving in his hair. Marc glances up at the TV. Dozens of police cars collide on the screen.
“Vale.”
“Mm?”
Marc twists, grabs Valentino’s face between his thumb and forefinger. Valentino blinks at him, and his eyes grow wide.
“Hey,” Marc urges. “You need to help me with this. I need your opinion. Our wedding, Vale. Not mine. Ours.”
He makes his way next to the table with the champagne tower, pretends not to notice when the photographer arrives in his peripheral, crouching to get the shot. It’s remarkably similar to a race weekend, he thinks. All this attention, avoiding eye contact with camera lenses, far too many of his coworkers.
Pecco sidles up to him, a glass in his hand and a soft look on his face.
“No champagne for you?” he says, turning his shoulder in and severing the photographer’s view. Marc finds himself amused and shockingly grateful. He shakes his head. Pecco’s smile flickers the way it does when he’s told himself a joke in his head. It’s fifty-fifty, usually, on whether he shares it with the rest of the world after.
“Ah. So you’re expecting already.”
There it is. Marc snorts.
“That’s good,” he admits, “that’s a good one.” A glance at his watch tells him they’re not even halfway through. He plucks a glass from the champagne tower, as if to make a point. “Thank fuck. A wedding and a baby, could you imagine.”
Pecco’s shoulders shake. He hums, covering his mouth with two long fingers, thoughtful.
“How’s Vale been?”
Not any more or less uncomfortable than Marc had been expecting. They make for a good performance in garages and grid boxes, but it’s different when the people watching know that it’s real. Feels like there’s more on the line.
“There is still a significant chance he runs away, I think,” Marc says. He says it like it could be funny — like it’s a joke. “Perhaps I should have put handcuffs in the wedding budget.”
Pecco laughs.
“It is not too late,” he shrugs, “you could find something in the gift pile. Look for Mig’s name, maybe.”
Marc’s hyena cackle scares the waitress replenishing the champagne. He flashes her an apologetic grin.
“Awful. Such bad taste.”
“Here he comes,” Pecco lifts his glass, waves Valentino down. They watch him weave between tables, fending off conversation attempts with convincing apologies. He steals Marc’s drink when he arrives, eyebrows raised high. There’s something sharp to the edges of him — squirmy and electric. Marc doesn’t want to ask about it, doesn’t want to know.
“What were you laughing at?”
Pecco says, “Bondage,” face blank. Valentino chokes on Marc’s champagne.
“Yeah, thanks, Francesco, my mother is right there,” he hisses. Pecco tips his glass again, like you’re welcome. Marc hooks his fingers through Valentino’s arm.
“Come on, we need to get the speeches on so that we can eat, yes?”
𓇢𓆸
Álex talks for six minutes. Marc cries for every single one of them. Ugly cries, face hidden in one of his beautifully embossed napkins, choking wetly on his laughter when Álex stops breaking his heart for a moment to tell a joke about their childhood or Marc’s terrible competitive streak. He gets in one strikingly poignant, “You should do this professionally,” that launches the room into hysterics and has Marc giggling through his tears.
Luca says his piece after, and Valentino doesn’t cry the way Marc had, but his eyes get wet and he grips Marc’s hand like a vice beneath the table — blinks hard when it’s over, has to swallow thickly before he can speak again. They eat and cut the cake, and it finally starts to feel less like a precipice and more like a wedding. He’s content and full, listening to the conversation either side of him, smoothing his thumb over Valentino’s knuckles until the chatter lulls and he can lean in and excuse himself for a moment.
There’s nobody in the bathroom when he slips through the door, so he locks it behind him. The lighting is harsher than it had been in his suite. Turns the concealer beneath his eyes bright, makes him look stark and not all there. He turns the tap on and pats the cool water into his skin.
He’s here. Valentino’s here. Things are going well. People are having a good time, they’re telling him it’s beautiful. It’s good. He counts up to sixty and back down, breathes a line through every set of four seconds. The structure starts to fall away at this point; more drinking and dancing and big share plates of dessert brought out for those who’d like them. Another hour and a half, probably.
He shakes out his hands and wipes his face dry. The noise, music and voices, rises up as soon as he cracks the door. Every face he can see is smiling. He picks his way back to the head table. Luca’s there with Bez, who offers a small smile when Marc leans in to get their attention.
“Did Vale say where he was going?”
Luca gives Bez a look. His face is serious when he turns back to Marc.
“Said he was coming to find you. Did you miss each other?”
Marc blinks.
“When was that?”
“Like a minute after you left, maybe.”
Marc pushes away from the table and swivels back towards the centre of the room. He can’t see Valentino, but it’s — it’s a big venue, and there’s a garden and a second level and everything.
“I’ll call him,” he says. Luca nods. He mutters something to Bez as Marc’s leaving, too quiet beneath the music, not meant to be heard.
“He said he wouldn’t do this.”
This.
Marc swallows back a rush of nausea. What the fuck is ‘this’.
𓇢𓆸
Valentino doesn’t pick up. Marc makes his way around the edge of the room towards the stairs as his call rings out for the second time. They would’ve run into each other if Valentino had come to the bathroom, and Marc can’t see him from the second story, peering over the railing with his knuckles turning white around it.
Pecco catches him again at the bottom of the stairs. Says, “Luca said you’re looking for Vale, did you call him?”
“Yeah, he — it went to voice message. Luca said — ah, Álex!”
He claps Pecco on the shoulder and slips past him to where his brother and Roser are picking over a plate of panellets. The pair of them jolt at Marc’s shout, and it must be written all over his face, the fear, because Roser’s eyes turn hard and Álex gets him gently by the arm.
“Have you seen Valentino? He won’t — he’s not answering my calls, and he —” lied to Luca. Marc cuts himself off, bites his tongue. Álex pats at him.
“We can help look, okay? Maybe the staff know.”
“He’ll be here somewhere, querido,” his mare says. Marc can hear it in her voice; that she doesn’t believe it. He shirks the urge to snap at her, that Valentino wouldn’t do this to him, that they’re better. The words curdle on his tongue. In this moment, with panic crawling up his throat, he doesn’t even know if he believes it.
“Yes, okay. I’m — I’m going to go search the garden. Call me if you find him.”
The air is warm and sticking outside, and it fills his mouth and nose up with summery heat. He cuts across the grounds, calling Valentino’s name. The pond doesn’t give him an answer — the trees stay quiet. He pivots for the hedge maze.
It’s not difficult to reach the centre of; more decorative than something meant to provide a real challenge. But Valentino isn’t there, sat in the stone gazebo in his suit like Marc had hoped he’d be.
He pushes a fist against his mouth till his teeth start to cut into his knuckles. Valentino had gripped his hand so hard beneath the table. Marc had just thought it was — emotions. Good emotions. But he —
“You look upset.”
Vale. The breath falls out of him in a tremendous rush. He spins on his heel. Valentino is —
Not. Not Valentino. It’s — Marc recognises him, of course, the whole world could, but it’s not — not his Valentino. And he’d heard it in his voice. Younger, higher, a stronger accent not yet diluted by decades of travel. He stumbles back, hits the stone bench and collapses onto to it. He lifts a shaking hand to his brow. No fever.
“Is this in my head, am I —?”
It’s all he can get out. Valentino, nineteen, twenty, maybe, blinks owlishly down at him. He lowers himself gingerly to the other side of the bench and kicks his feet out, eyes wide.
“I do not know. I do not think so. This happens, sometimes.”
Marc pinches himself. The scene doesn’t shift. Valentino remains unchanged, lanky and smooth-skinned, hair shorter than Marc’s seen him cut it in years.
“Does it,” he mutters, trying to keep the rattle from his voice.
“What are you sad for? This is a party, right?”
“A wedding,” Marc corrects absently, too far out of his mind now to ask any more questions, blood pounding in his ears. “I don’t know if I can — if I can say. To you. Do you know what — what is happening?”
“Allora, a bit. I’m not meant to be here, now, yes? And you — Me and you, something. I feel that.”
“You feel it,” Marc repeats. Like that would be the most strange thing about the situation; Valentino from the past having a sixth sense about their relationship. He’d said it so simply, inconsequentially. Me and you. Something. Like it isn’t hard to believe, to imagine. Marc can’t believe it himself, sometimes.
Valentino looks him up and down, catlike and keen.
“A wedding.”
Marc bites his lip. Swallows past the lump in his throat. Valentino’s eyes grow suddennly round.
“Is it our wedding?”
A miserable laugh forces its way past his teeth. He nods. Valentino shifts an inch closer. He’s wearing a football jersey and shorts that nearly reach his knees. Not much has changed.
“Did you — run? Did I leave you at the altar, do people still do that?”
Marc laughs again. It comes surprisingly easy, despite his racing pulse and the thick sludge of fear in him, but it always has, around Valentino. The joy. He runs a hand over his face, tries to settle into the moment, lean into the strange. It’s fucking weird, but easier to manage than a panic attack, somehow. He takes a steeling breath.
“No. You are — you were here. I just think you’ve — gone off, for a bit. maybe. I hope.”
When Valentino doesn’t reply, Marc turns to meet his gaze. His face is pale. Stricken.
“You hope,” he echoes. “Would I —? Do you think I would? Leave?”
Yes. No. I don’t know.
“No. I don’t. It’s just — weddings.” Marc bites his tongue. Valentino is deathly still. “They can be stressful. Lots of people. Probably, you needed — he needed a break.”
“Marc?”
A woman’s voice lifts above Marc’s drumming pulse. Stefania appears through the gap in the hedges, shawl pulled around her shoulders. A breeze has picked up, but it’s still warm.
“Marc,” she says again, “Valentino is back.” He can hear her relief, and it — it steadies him. That he wasn’t the only one. And then she sways, recognition colouring her face as her eyes find her son.
“Oh. You're back.”
𓇢𓆸
Fast Italian jammers at Stefania through the doorway, turned up louder than the sound of the tap running and her dinner cooking. She turns the gas off, wraps a dish towel around the pot handle and ladles enough risotto into a bowl for just her. The rest gets spooned into a container, and the empty pot fills up quickly with hot water, left to soak in the sink.
“There is Valentino, he’s been waiting to make this move but he’s surely close enough now, only a tenth between them.”
Usually, they eat at the table. But Massimo and Luca are with Vale, and the race is on, so she’ll balance the bowl on her knees and eat slowly, just in case. She fishes a spoon from the cutlery drawer and turns for the door.
Except there is Valentino. Her son, all of nineteen years old, posed rigidly by the table like he’d dropped down from the ceiling. His eyes are wide, panicked, and Stefania can see the blunt ends of his teeth past his lips, jaw slack.
“Vale,” she breathes, out of instinct more than anything else. His mouth clicks shut.
She tells herself it is experience and the familiarity of adrenaline that allow her to take this so well. She sits Valentino at the head of the table, gives him her bowl and her spoon, fetches another serving for herself and then sits down with him. His hands shake.
“I — I do not — you’re older, why do you look —?”
Valentino lets the risotto go cold, perhaps too scared to eat, unsettled even once they’ve pieced things mostly together; all but the ‘why’.
Stefania feels there is an innate sense of fragility to the situation, as if any word could be the wrong one, so she keeps herself careful. Disappears for just a moment to turn the TV off so that Valentino can’t hear his own name from the commentator’s mouths, and then talks about everything but racing.
“You haven’t eaten,” she notices, half an hour into their conversation. Valentino has the decency to look guilty, ears reddening. “Let me fix you dessert.”
She still makes his favourite for herself, even though it’s been years since they’ve eaten it together.
“I hope you still like this, whenever or wherever you’re from,” she says. Valentino doesn’t answer.
She turns around.
Valentino isn’t there anymore. His chair is still pulled out from the table.
Nausea rises in her throat like a flood, bringing somethinig like grief up across her tongue. She tucks the dessert into the fridge and returns to the couch. Luca will eat it when he comes back.
On the TV, Valentino lifts the first place trophy over his head, mouth split in a victorious grin. Stefania reaches for her phone. She dials his number as he shakes the champagne, as he sprays it across a rapturous crowd.
The message tone beeps.
“I watched your race, Vale. I’m very proud. I love you.”
𓇢𓆸
Marc stands, takes two big steps. His Valentino.
“Where did you — did he come back on his own? Are we — is everything still okay?”
Stefania meets him. She gets her arm around him, and he turns back to blink at the boy on the bench. Valentino is watching them, brows pinched, mouth open.
Stefania says, “Come up when you are ready, alright?” She squeezes him once, smiling sadly, and then she leaves back through the maze. The silence falls fast, thick and suffocating. Marc is shaking again.
Valentino asks, quietly, “Is it a nice wedding?”
Marc looks at him. His fingers are twisted together in his lap, and he’s trembling like Marc is. He would have heard the panic in Marc’s voice — Stefania had seen it and moved towards him, against it.
“Okay,” Marc rushes, “God, okay. Come see, quickly. Just for a second.”
Valentino leaps for his feet like he thinks Marc is going to rescind the offer as soon as he’s made it. And he thinks about it, he does, because it feels like breaking the laws of the universe. But Valentino is looking at him like that, like he’s witnessed the weight of his future in the blink of an eye.
He has, almost, Marc realises. This is a lot — an end point, and a beginning. He takes a deep breath.
They creep up the garden towards an open window around the back of the venue. Valentino follows a step behind him, but leans in close when Marc reaches to push the white curtains out of the way. The celebration has continued inside like nothing is wrong. Like nobody is out of place. There is dancing and drinking and singing, and Marc’s eyes find his mare, and beside her, Valentino — his Valentino.
“It’s nice,” Valentino, at his side, whispers.
Through the window, it looks like a framed photograph. Picturesque.
“It is,” Marc agrees. The decor he'd chosen. Thousands of flowers. He sniffs and pulls away to wipe at his eyes. When he looks back, the crowd has shifted, and his Valentino is no longer by the head table. Marc shakes himself. He has to get back. “Okay,” he says, “we should —”
The words die on his tongue. Valentino isn’t there anymore. He blinks back at the gap in the curtain. A thin line of joy, of people he and Valentino love.
“Marc, fuck.”
A pair of hands catch his waist, startling him. It’s his Vale, and he’s here. He looks sick, pale, rushing, “Sorry, sorry,” in a choked whisper. The tension drains from Marc’s posture like cut strings, and then Valentino is keeping him up against the window frame. They’re here. He’s here. But the fear is still —
“You didn’t want — you don’t want to undo it?” He hates himself for saying it, how it causes Valentino’s expression to crumple. Valentino places his hands on either side of Marc’s face. He pulls him in, holds him by the back of his head and presses Marc against his shoulder.
“No. No, I’m sorry. I want it, Marc, of course.”
Marc muffles a gasping sound in Valentino’s shirt.
“I have wanted it. Waited for it, it feels like. Like I knew I would have this. I do want it, Marc. With you.”
The words spill against his hair, Valentino’s breath hot and rapid. Fast as Marc’s heart. Panicking, still. Marc pulls back to laugh, watery. The meaning isn’t lost on him.
“You fucking scared me,” he says, and Valentino squeezes him.
“I am bad at this, I know. I will get better — no disappearing.”
No disappearing, Marc thinks, please, no more disappearing.
𓇢𓆸
Valentino is warm beside him. Asleep solidly, and too hot, even, where they’re pressed together. Marc listens to his breathing and to the gentle lap of waves in the distance. They’re close enough to the water for the moonlight through the window to paint it in silver ripples across their ceiling.
He closes his eyes into slits, till the patterns turn into blurry little comets.
Valentino had fucked him as the sun set, painted red and pink above him in the bed, skin gold. Slow, reverent. Quieter than usual, weighted like two anchored ships, drifting. There had been one joke about consummation and a small fit of laughter, and then a few more at Valentino’s twinging back or his protesting knees. Easy, though. Always, now.
Marc lets his eyes fall shut. The silver patterns dance in the dark.
They hate time, often and together. What it stole from them — even if Marc secretly thinks well, that was our fault, wasn’t it. He pictures the face of the boy in the maze, and thinks that was all our fault.
The live band had packed up by the time they made their way back inside, and the music had been transferred into Álex’s capable hands. One more dance, Valentino said — an apology in and of itself.
There was nothing romantic about El Alfa, but Álex cheered above the beat and all Marc could do was grin.
One last dance, one last glass of champagne. Valentino’s hands on his waist. Valentino smiling down at him, laughing. Not traditional. Not perfect.
I love SOSN kaider so much 😭😭😭😭😭. All the awkward hesitation from the earlier books is gone, they're just completely into each other. She's "desperate to see Kai again." She ignores Scarlet's rant because she's too busy listening out to see if Kai's already arrived. He was waiting all day for her arrival. He immediately drags her away to the back of the hall even though the others can still see them. They talk for 30 seconds just so it's "an acceptable amount of small talk" before they start making out. With their friends still there. And they proceed to ignore those friends for the rest of the day and walk around yapping to each other about literally everything. They don't sleep until dawn. He warms up her cold metal hand with his. It's the first time we get to see them say 'I love you' 🥹
Kai making funny gestures at her during breakfast. Her totally not trusting his decorating skills. Her projecting their relationship onto Scarlet and Wolf's during the wedding speech. Her resting her head on his shoulder. Taking him to see the creepy underground bunker and him just accepting it. Like 'yeah your life is hella messed up but all good babe i love you.' He takes her to the creek so he can look up at the stars with her "beside him for once, rather than just wishing she was beside him". (I gotta be honest guys when Cinder says "why are you showing me a creek?" I can't relate because I love creeks so if a guy took me to one I wouldn't ask why I'd be like hell yeah)
"It occurred to her all at once that Kai was nervous. Kai was never nervous." He's NERVOUS guys. He wants to be with her for the rest of his life. He wants her to be his wife and empress. She says "that's a lot of wanting." He says "you have no idea." "I might have some idea." She wants it just as much as he does. He puts the ring on her finger before asking her, to me that's him just hardcore committing. Like girl you have a choice but I am PUTTING this ring on your finger so you know I'm 100% in. She thinks it's hysterical that the emperor would be proposing her. "But it was Kai. Which somehow made it exactly right." And she says yes and they kiss and laugh and she doesn't feel "the surge of anxiety she would've expected years ago." She's not afraid at all. When you read Wires and Nerve you see how nervous Cinder is, how uncertain she is about their relationship. But only a year later those doubts are gone, she's even happy to become the empress. They have "every intention of being blissfully happy for ever, ever after." Hello??? My girl who suffered so much?? My boy who lost everyone?? They're going to be happy forever after and I can't handle it 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
